


Shipping Out to England

by Subtle_Salieri



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Drinking, Kissing, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtle_Salieri/pseuds/Subtle_Salieri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Rider's shipped out to join the war effort, and Peter wants to give him a nice welcome to England: Drinking and arguing with a bunch of crazed anti-Nazi fighters. </p><p> </p><p>Part of the same AU as "When Good Boys Become Warriors".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shipping Out to England

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xyriath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/gifts).



“Hey, Richie, you didn’t drown in the Atlantic!” Peter Quill wasn’t a person particularly renowned for his subtlety or polite manner, which was probably why he bellowed his greeting to the skies and slapped Rich on the back when he saw his old friend from America. 

“Made it just fine. Had too! My country’s too wussy to go to war!” He retorted.

“And aren’t we damn lucky to have you.”

“You got directions to the airbase, by any chance?”

“That I do, Richie-boy, that I do. But we’re not going there.”

Rich humored him. “OK, where are we going?” Peter slung his arm around his buddy’s shoulder.

“Pub!”

“Pub?”

“Pub.”

—-

Starlin(“it’s a colloquial of that bloody calling bird that tries to peck your eyes out”) Pub.

And, apparently, an extensive collection of Pete’s friends.

“Now here we have RR —” A surly-faced-but-cheery-mooded man with an impressive, untamed mustache, who by Rich’s guess was no more than four and a half feet tall, grinned over a pint glass, ” — and his buddy Groot —” a gangling, spindly, scraggly haired boy seated next to RR, “and this is Art and his darlin’ dottie Heather — Heath, your lovie isn’t going to be here? — ” a very scary looking burly bald man and his marginally less scary bald daughter ” — This fella we call Bug, he’s from Damascus or some sandy hot place like that —” A handsome, dark-skinned and dark-haired man smiled warmly — “And this is our sweet little praying mantis of Indochina and — Hey! Gammy! This is my good boy that I told you about from America!” 

An  _extremely_ attractive dark-haired women in a bomber jacket with several knives hanging on her belt sidled up to them. “Oh yeah?” Her voice had an accent that might have been French, for all Rich’s uncultured ears could tell. “You weren’t lying. He’s a bit cute. Oy, Arthur, slide that glass over here!”

“Sure, sure, Gam. When’s our next raid, anyway?”

She arched her eyebrows. “Later.”

“Wait, y’all are Pete’s  _Guardians_  crew?” Several heads around the table nodded. Pete shrugged and took a slug from a glass sitting in front of him. “I didn’t do anything, don’t bloody blame me. They came to me like a bunch of deadly moths. ‘Pressive, really.” He pressed a pint in Rich’s hand.

“Tch, hey, Gammy. Heard the Nazis bulldozed through ya hometown last week. Must, tch, suck.” Bug needled.

“Yeah, yeah, I was just born there, that old fuck dragged me out of there decades ago. Don’t try me, though, Bug,” she warned. 

“So, Richard, you’re orginally from Texas? You have an accent of it,” the Vietnamese woman asked.

“Yeah, but I live in New York — how’d you know my name?”

“Ooh, she’s a psychic lad, oughta get her a crystal ball,” RR spoke up animatedly, in a Scots accent. 

The conversation bounced around dramatically, and Rich found himself drinking more than he ever had at home, until he was ill-at-ease on his feet. Some point after midnight, so nearly five on Rich’s clock, he simply couldn’t keep himself up.

“Hey, Richie, lemme put you up at my place, can’t present yourself to the Novas shitfaced like this. Promise I won’t fuck you before Gam gets herself a chance,” Pete said in a bizarrely reassuring tone, winking at Gam.

“Phht.”

“Erm, yeauh, that’d probbly be the best —” Rich said in a wambly voice. “You Guardians are pretty great —” His sentences kept trailing off. 

“All right, let’s get you in a bed. You lot! Sober up before 730.” There were several large gestures of the crew saying goodnight to the new American kid, before Pete dragged him out. 

“Nicss people you hang with, Pe—ete.” He leaned on Pete, who was also carrying his bag at this point, so he didn’t slip and end up making out with the ground. 

“They’re a damn good crew. I wouldn’t be standin’ here without them. Corse, I wouldn’t have had any good opportunity to die without them.” 

“I just want to do the most I can, f’r the war…”

“I know you, Richie, you’ll do a damn good job.” They staggered into a walk-up building, into a dark room with only a a little lighting from a window that was a sparsely furnished, with boxes of belongings in the corner. 

“Bed’s in the right corner. You mind sharing?”

“Sure.”

“Righty.” Peter set down the duffle, and pulled Rich into a firm bear hug — he was several inches taller and a hell of a lot brawnier than Rich was. 

“Nice to see you, Richie. It’s been too damn long,” he muttered. “The war’s makin’ me miss my kid friends.” He loosened the embrace and kissed Rich, the smell of beer and ale heavy and his stubble — clearly the Guardians raids didn’t make him bother with regular shaving — tickling and scratching Rich’s chin. Rich went with it, maybe too drunk to be irritated by the scratchy-half beard. Eventually Peter pulled away.

“Jes’ missed you.” 

“‘course, Petey. I missed you, too.” 


End file.
